The Fog of Command
by A.A. Pessimal
Summary: A spin-off from a longer adventure, to be published. Discworld-satire, based in the days 100 or more years before the present, when Ankh-Morpork had an Army and an Empire. Featuring Sybil's illustrious ancestor.


_**A misunderstanding in war…**_

_A spinoff ficlet from a longer piece I'm writing. It's set slightly over a hundred and twenty years in advance of the consensus present on the Discworld, when Ankh-Morpork still had an army. And a residual Empire to fight in…_

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The Field-Marshal spurred his horse on, heedless of the cries from the aides tailing in his wake. He was heedless of his personal security, certainly, and also bloody-well _furious_. His normally sanguine face is redder still, and his anger is plain for all to see.

Heedless of the occasional stray arrow nor of the bursting of a catapult-flung munition, he arrives at the lines of impeccably drawn-up light cavalrymen across the head of the valley, the blue of the North Hergenian horse, the cherry of the Ankh-Morpork Lancers, the scarlet of the Quirm Hussars.

"RUST!" he bellows, furiously.

Colonel Ronald Rust turns round in his saddle from a euphoria of eternal fame in a doomed charge. He recognises Field-Marshal Ramkin, all red face and redder beard, known as "Scarlett" Ramkin to the men, and a little composure drains from his face.

Pulling up next to his subordinate, Ramkin demanded, in no uncertain terms, to know what you're DOING, you inept incompetent little shit!

"Charging their siege weapons. Sir. As you ordered via Captain Nolan"

Ramkin turned to glare at the Hergenian (1) despatch rider. He grins nervously back.

"Faith, sorr, is it my fault if the Colonel can't tell his front from his flank?"

Ramkin leaves the question of whether the Hergenian is merely being inept, or else an agent the Hergenian Republican Army has infiltrated, to weaken the army of the hated Ankhian oppressor. _Wiping out me cavalry would be a fine blow for the rebels, _Ramkin thought.

"I said. Rust. Charge THOSE siege weapons over THERE while they are being disemplaced and cannot fire back! Capture them or spike them, either way render them useless to the Zlobenians. Now what you instead propose to do is to charge bank after bank of catapult and ballista and automated crossbow. All of which are well emplaced, have well-chosen fields of fire, and could reduce your six hundred horse to a Quirmian butcher's stock within ten minutes. Is it possible you misinterpreted my command, hmmm?"

Ramkin glared at Rust, meaningfully.

"Assisted by Captain "Brains" Nolan, here."

Rust looked back, languidly, arrogantly sure of being in the right.

"I thought it only fitting, sir, that the Zlobenian commander have a sporting chance to remove his artillery without loss. I met him at the Genuan ball and consider Count Ignatieff to be a honourable man of good family. I would not have a chap cashiered for losing his artillery!"

"_HE'S THE FUCKING ENEMY, MAN!" _Ramkin exploded. "You're _MEANT to get in there and spoil his career. That's WAR! That's ALLOWED!"_

"Besides, a noble charge against emplaced artillery. That's the sort of thing that cements a reputation…."

Ramkin did not hesitate. He swung his horse around, and his right fist balled. Rust, taken by surprise, flew out of the saddle and measured his full motionless length on the ground.

"Ah, Major Mountjoy-Standish", Ramkin said, calmer now. "Colonel Rust is…ah… indisposed. Take command of the Brigade, would you?"

"Very good, sir. Bugler! Sound the "Withdraw!"

Ramkin nodded. He might never command an Army in the field again. But at least he'd won a different sort of victory. One he _could_ tell his grandchildren about, with pride. (2) He rode back with Nolan and the Major.

"And, Mountjoy. What do the locals call this place?"

"It's a bit of a jaw-cracker, sir. But it translates into Morporkian as _Tight-Fitting Woollen Hood With A Small Visual Aperture." (3)_

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Footnotes:-

(1) **_Hergen_**: it's on the Mapp, to the "north" and "west" of Llamedos, but nothing more is known about it. Given its geographical location, I am speculating it is the Discworld analogue of Ireland. (ie, just west of Wales).

(2) And one day, his grand-daughter told her husband, who nodded appreciatively and filed the story away for information…

(3) Based on an obscure battle on Roundworld, in the Crimean War.


End file.
